


Crossing Paths

by Val_Creative



Series: Kinktober/Whumptober/Goretober 2020 [15]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ass Play, Beltane, Bisexual Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Blood, Canon Related, Celebrations, Chance Meetings, Fever, Forest Sex, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Goretober, Infection, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Light Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Massage, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sexual Content, Travel, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Destiny never fails. Geralt and Jaskier meet again after separating. Nobody wants to talk it out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Kinktober/Whumptober/Goretober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949473
Comments: 11
Kudos: 105
Collections: Kinktober 2020, Whumptober 2020





	Crossing Paths

**Author's Note:**

> I MISS THEM. LET GERALT APOLOGIZE AND JASKIER CAN BE LIKE HMM MAYBE,,,, OKAY sdkldskds I also wanted to add some Geralt & Ciri because I am interested in their family/friendship dynamic. Please enjoy! Any comments/thoughts appreciated!❤︎❤︎❤︎

*

Traveling with Jaskier had been a pain.

But… if it's between him and Princess Cirilla… Jaskier generally knew how to take care of himself. Geralt worried less.

Months pass. Ciri travels along with him now, bundling her long, yellow hair into scarves and hearing his guidance. Regarding the Law of Surprise, Geralt doesn't keep her with him for only this. She's been orphaned. He understands what that feels like.

Pity or duty or love… Geralt doesn't have an answer as to what Ciri blooms in him.

*

Mahakam sits proudly as a vassal state of Temeria. It exists within strongholds and ironworks and mountain mines. Geralt has heard of its gwyhyrs cutting through pure diamond in a single stroke. Any steel worth a damn in a fight contains Mahakam iron.

They've found way around the gates, heading towards the rimrocks and slopes. Mahakam remains closed off to lowlanders.

Deep in a mine, Geralt faces what he assumes is a _Frightener_. A beast with the torso of a gigantic and iridescently green beetle. Fangs drool all around its skull where its mouths hiss open. The forelegs covered in silken, poisonous hairs. They could crush an oxen. Talons glisten in the shadows, and they feel as sharp as a newly crafted blade hitting flesh.

Ciri waves her torch furiously as it approaches her. The heat, unfortunately, does not _frighten_ a Frightener. They are desert-dwellers by nature. Geralt doesn't understand how a Frightener escaped so far from Kaer Morhen, and how it survived.

It strikes Geralt, tossing him aside, unharmed by his silver sword. A flash of deep agonizing pain erupts in Geralt's left forearm.

Ciri's emerald-green eyes moisten with tears. Her expression tightens.  She lets out a roar so tremendous, so much _bigger_ than her own small form, that it vibrates the air and rumbles the ore-slick walls. The beast howls and thrashes, wriggling its forearms, retreating back into the darkness as Ciri snatches onto Geralt's hand, running. The mine collapses deafeningly behind them.

They'll have to find a new way.

*

"It smells foul," Ciri whispers, binding up Geralt's injured forearm. The scrap of linen already darkens.

Geralt heals faster than this. He knows it. The wound has a jagged, clawed appearance and runs across Geralt's arm. Not too deep. Geralt's wound looks like it's half-healed instead, edged in a swollen, discolored bulge. Dark yellow and lumpy pus oozes out. Ciri tries to flush water into the arm-wound as it weeps a hard, pale blood rather than Geralt's black.

She fusses.

Blood infection, Geralt assesses this. The pain has grown severe and throbbing up his entire left arm. Geralt vomits in the morning, shivering and gulping for air. He can't even piss. There's a fever upon him, hot and dull-aching behind Geralt's eyes.

(Perhaps she's right to.)

*

He thinks about Jaskier sometimes.

Geralt won't admit it, not out loud and not to Ciri, but he holds the memory of them in Vole fondly. Traveling through narrow dusty roads in blessed silence due to Jaskier's affliction of a mild silencing curse. It last for another day. Jaskier threw a fit by stomping his foot and glaring intensely when a thinly smiling Geralt admitted to basking in Jaskier's predicament.

Nothing but open night skies and Roach flicking his tail contently, grazing, as they laid out to sleep.

Geralt listened to the soft insect chirping. The light patter of rain. Jaskier's under-tunic fluttering in the wind as he rucked it off and shuddered against Geralt's palm holding firmly to his bare back. Crawling up. Heeding each sensation and intake of breath.

They laid _together_.

Jaskier, even with his voice returned to him, spoke nothing of it. Pleasant or ill will. He treated Geralt no differently as his friend.

And… _still_ … Geralt broke his heart.

He left.

Jaskier left, too.

Remorse seems to burrow harsher than the infection.

*

From Oreton to Claywich, Geralt notices the villagers leaving their cows out into the pastures.

"I thought I heard someone gossiping about a Witcher…"

A mage approaches them. She's thin. Brown of skin and hair. Ciri hunches forward, sitting herself off a barrel, ready to defend to Geralt who blinks up. "Triss Merigold," he mumbles. Geralt's legs fatigued. Ciri propped him against a wood-pole fence.

Triss frowns.

"You look awful, Geralt. What has happened?"

"We need help, if you can give it," Ciri says, nearly pleading. "He's _hurt_. Geralt saved me."

Geralt watches Triss swept aside her blue, velvety robes, hunching down.

As if detecting it, Triss rolls up Geralt's sleeve. She cradles his forearm and hums. "The wound will not close if you leave it off, Geralt. You encountered something that _prevents_ your Witcher abilities from reaching it." Triss examines his blotchy-pink, sweating face. Her other hand rests to Geralt's chest. "Your heart is failing. You must act now if you wish to see the morning."

"What do you suggest?"

Triss presents out a tiny jeweled bottle filled with amber liquid. "You are familiar with the Golden Oriole, are you not?" she asks.

Geralt eyes her.

A very rare potion found in Old Vizima. To drink it would build a resistance to toxins in a Witcher's body. For a dying mortal, the Golden Oriole can revive and prolong their life. It is not considered true immortality or invincibility, but something akin to it.

"A merchant sold me this," Triss informs him. "You will owe me much more than a _favor_ if I give this to you—"

Ciri opens her mouth.

"—and it is even more than what a princess could offer," Triss says, glancing up to her as Ciri blushes and grumbles.

Geralt nods.

_ "Hhn." _

He accepts the offering, uncapping the bottle and pouring the shimmering amber liquid into his mouth. Within a moment, Geralt feels his strength regaining. He pushes himself onto his feet, grunting and rubbing over his chin thoughtfully.

"Enjoy the celebrations while you are here." Triss rises to her feet alongside him, folding her hands.

Ciri tilts her head.

"For what?"

"The hour has come for Belleteyn." Triss offers a smile, walking off. "Take care, Geralt. I will call upon you when I need you."

*

Bonfires glow and tower above their heads as dusk falls.

They all rejoice.

Claywich's villagers put out their household fires and candles in excitement, re-lighting them with the sacred, living flames of the bonfires. Kindling the rites to protect them and their loved ones. Elders smear warm, grey ashes on their cheeks and mouths.

Windows and doorways shine brightly with yellow flowers tucked in and haloed with lantern-light. Primroses, gorse, hazel, marigolds, and hawthorn. Rowan covers the ground. Garlands and bouquets adorn the wagons. Sycamore branches passes between families, one-by-one, decorating them in ribbons and yellow buttercup flowers and painted shells.

Summerwine pours into goblets like a rich red elixir and drains into throats. Geralt can smell the roundels of elk stuffed with a sharp white goat's cheese and herb-crusted ox roasting until blackened. Hot pigeon pies covered in a lemon cream.

Dancers sway, jumping over the smaller fires with naked feet. Men beat their animal-skin drums and blow horns.

Geralt catches sight of Ciri, further off, holding hands with a freckled, dark-haired girl and spinning them in circles. Her laughter high. Her little, pale face breaking into a carefree grin. Geralt's stomach feels lighter than before. The nausea fades.

Not all is lost.

*

Ciri disappears shortly before mid-night.

Geralt overhears about the tradition of the younger celebration-goers running off into the woods, searching for a companion and searching the fern flower. In over three hundred years, no-one has ever returned to Claywich with a fern flower.

He has no patience for this.

There isn't a clearing for a mile in. Geralt navigates through the oaks and black alder trees. His feet leap the rock vegetation of grasses and lichens and saxifrages. He nudges around clumps of thorny, bare-limbed brush. Geralt reaches a slow-moving creek surrounded in leaves, stepping over it effortlessly, when he hears a moan ringing out. A woman's moan of pleasure.

Not far off, a man pins her up against a tree, chuckling and kissing down the woman's neck. Young with a fair face—the man. 

_The man._

Geralt realises who the man is. 

Jaskier's hands dig under the back of a wool skirt, cupping an arse and squeezing.

The woman opens her eyes, stiffening and staring at Geralt in outrage.

Jaskier turns, not pulling away from her. His blue eyes widen. Geralt has never seen Jaskier _stunned into silence_ before. Not without a curse. "Geralt?" Jaskier murmurs, his lips barely moving. His hands drop. Geralt's head feels lighter than his stomach.

Neither of them have looked away from each other, Geralt realises again.

The woman cries out Jaskier's name, hitting his arm and sulking off into the raspberry undergrowth. She passes Geralt without acknowledging him. Geralt wouldn't know what to say. Jaskier bounds after her, shaking his head as if coming out of a trance.

_"Lovely!"_ Jaskier yells in aggravation, scowling this time. "Is that all you're here to do, Geralt? Ruin my evening?"

Geralt didn't know he would cross paths with Jaskier like this.

Before he can explain, Geralt feels himself sinking. The healing potion kicks in. He's woozy. "Geralt, sit down," Jaskier prattles on. His hands on Geralt's upper arms. "You're alright—don't you dare think about dying here before apologis— _nngh_ —!"

Geralt witnesses the visible flinch.

"Jaskier?"

"Ss'nothing," Jaskier mutters. He seats himself down against the cracked tree trunk, rubbing his leg. "Why would you care?"

Exhaustion teems into Geralt as his body adjusts to healing more quickly, more normally as a Witcher. Geralt joins him, clapping Jaskier's ankle as it raises up and a glum-looking Jaskier rubs on his calf. "That will only make it worse," Geralt points out.

"I do not believe I asked."

"Strained muscle?"

Jaskier doesn't confirm or deny it, and Geralt understands. He doesn't know if being forgiven will come easily. Geralt wraps his hand gently around Jaskier's calf, bringing it towards him and massaging through the lambswool fabric.

Jaskier's protest vanishes mid-syllable.

"… _gods_ ," he utters, letting his head tip backwards. Jaskier's eyelids flutter. "Higher… go higher."

It's certainly a tensed and overworked muscle. Geralt presses his fingers in, grunting aloud, sliding up to Jaskier's knee.

"A little higher…"

"If you want a healer, then you can fetch one," Geralt mutters. He massages into the soft, thick skin above Jaskier's knee. A rapturous noise escapes Jaskier's lips. A flash of hot-heat lust strengthens inside him, crackling in Geralt's veins, filling his cock.

"A _liiiittle_ higher than that…"

Jaskier's voice lowers a pitch, rumbles in mischievous tones. _That_ is the Jaskier he is acquainted with.

Geralt's fingertips stop short of Jaskier's clothed inner thigh, gripping down, waiting for Jaskier's own hand to move his. Feel over him. Seek a release between them. Jaskier moves himself, faintly smirking and turning to face a bemused Geralt. He takes hold of Geralt's hips, urging him to kneel up over Jaskier's lap. Like he's been expecting this. _Wanting_ this.

His hands drop onto the tops of Jaskier's shoulders. Geralt doesn't wish to move. He'll let Jaskier.

A bolt of warmth jolts through Geralt as Jaskier's hands plunge under the seat of Geralt's black, leathered trousers, massaging down, cupping his arse. "Suppose… we can discuss this in the morning…" Jaskier mumbles, leaning in.

He smiles harder, wider as Geralt's mouth drifts to his.

*

Dawn's light fills Ciri's hair. She waves shyly to the freckled, dark-haired girl returning to the crowd of villagers.

She blows Ciri a kiss.

Geralt stands with her outside Claywich's woods. He eventually found her roaming towards one of the holy wells. "Wherever you have gone is not my concern," Geralt mutters, recalling his own Belleteyn evening. "Do not wander off again."

"I understand—"

_"—Geralt, I think you've bruised my prick,"_ Jaskier groans, adjusting himself in his breeches and coming up behind him.

Ciri's face reddens.

Geralt huffs. On his elbow, a smushed and colorful fern flower.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober 2020 prompt(s): **Massage**  
>  Whumptober 2020 prompt(s): **Magical Healing**  
>  Goretober 2020 prompt(s): **Infection**


End file.
